The Left Leg
Alex Gambino
Cover photo courtesy of Angelo Andiario
Copyright 2014 Alex Gambino
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Copyright
Table of Contents
The Left Leg
About The Author
I am not crazy. I live a normal life. Work in a normal office. I’ve even gotten married and had a few kids. I have a very blissful life with the love of my family, but I hate my left leg. I know how that sounds, but its alien to me. Exactly 1.17 inches above my knee. I don’t feel it as mine. With my leg attached to me I feel incomplete. The more I stare at it, the more alien it feels. It is one hundred percent not part of me, but there it is connected to me with seamless flesh. I know you’re saying to yourself 'that sounds pretty crazy,’ but I’m not.
I visited a few psychiatrists just to make sense of this feeling. All of them said I wasn’t suffering from some psychotic delusions, but there’s something wrong. My leg is not mine. I went to doctor after doctor trying to find something wrong with my damn leg. I began to have panic attacks. My blood pressure was through the roof. I was looking franticly for anything to give me a reason to why this happened. Maybe it was infected with some parasite, or a rare muscle disease that mutated and is affecting the bone and skin. I felt like Frankenstein’s Monster, like someone sewed my left leg to my body. I would spend nights staring at it envisioning, feeding inch upon inch into the screaming, bladed maw of a wood chipper. I smiled as I imagined it gurgling on the blood of that leg.
I promise I am not crazy.
As months passed, things at home were getting difficult. I was arguing with my wife more. We argued over the stupidest things. I couldn’t help it, I was angry beyond reason. And I didn’t understand why. I was more disciplinary with the kids. God help them if I saw a bad grade on their paper. More times then not the night ended with someone in tears. Even the Dog was getting on my nerves just by wagging its tail.
I decide to make it up to them. I took a week off from work and took them all to Disneyworld. Even the dog. The kids forgave my transgressions against them right away. My wife took a little bit more convincing, but the spa day at the resort seemed to help my case.
Going to Disney was a mistake.
We walked around the park from open to close. Every single step was a nightmare. Every time that left foot hit the pavement I prayed some sicko put a landmine directly under it. Sending me through the air like a blood-powered rocket, the burning shrapnel severing my leg with the surgical precision of a jack hammer. I was hard-pressed to enjoy my vacation. I spent most of it thinking about how I could position myself on the rides to lose it, but my family loved the trip. I was no longer monster dad and a terrible husband.
No one knew how much this was bothering me. I felt like a termite in an ant colony. And I couldn’t tell anyone because they would think I'm crazy. But I'm not. I went to psychiatrists. They told me I’m sane, but couldn’t tell me what I was feeling. Every doctor I went to couldn’t tell me what I was experiencing. What was I going to do? What could I do? I was going to have to live with someone else's leg attached to my body. My family life was better but I was finding it harder and harder to get through the days. I was falling behind on my work. My wife was growing concerned, but I kept telling her nothing was wrong. I didn’t want her to judge me. I was afraid she would take the kids and run if I told her.
Thanksgiving dinner we consider a break through, my wife and I that is. Her brother and his wife came to our house. It smelled of fresh baked bread, of succulent gravies, and of a turkey the size of my five-year-old. The house was full of laughter and joy. The kids were playing with their cousins. The women were preparing dinner and catching up on events. The men were watching football. The dog was wagging its tail. You couldn’t ask for a lovelier setting.
I hate my left leg.
I was aware of the happiness around me and all I was engrossed with was my leg. I felt like it was enjoying the pleasantries of my family, mocking me as I sulked, beer in hand. Glaring at it as it sat there content as I was miserable. I was so focused on it that the eruption of cheers that followed a touchdown couldn’t pry me from looking at it. Dinner was ready just after the game. I sat at the head of the table, the turkey viciously pointing his legs at me.
I envied the turkey. It didn’t have to suffer like I did. I envied all the smiling faces at the table. My wife was giving me the first piece. She asked what I wanted. I didn’t care. She grabbed the left leg. She took the carving knife and lovingly sawed through the meat. Severing the joint that held the leg there. I was cursing the turkey in my head. She had to pull the last bits of it off and handed me the plate. I sat there with the severed limb resting so peacefully on my plate. It wasn’t fair. I had to walk around life with something that’s not part of me and this turkey can get its leg severed and it’s socially acceptable.
I couldn’t take it. I slammed my hands on the table and removed myself from everyone. This wasn’t fair. I went outside and smoked my first cigarette in fifteen years. That night my wife questioned me about the incident at dinner. She was prepared for a screaming match, but I didn’t have it in me. She asked again for the thousandth time what was wrong. I said nothing, but she noted that I smelled of cigarette smoke. She said she couldn’t live this way anymore. That something had to change or she would leave and take the kids and the dog with her. A cold chill carved a path down my spine. The kind of chill when you don’t notice the car in front of you stopped and you have to slam your breaks to not cause an accident. I didn’t want to lose my wife or the kids. (The dog could go). I felt cornered. If I didn’t tell her anything she would leave, and if I told her she would surely leave. I couldn’t even lie. She knows me too well, she knows all my tells. I confessed, told her everything. About the doctors and the psychiatrists. About the gore filled fantasies and the depression. I told her how this leg isn’t mind despite it being attached to me. I could see the disgust on her face. She thought I was crazy. I felt like a fourteen year old who just wet his bed. She was going to leave and I was sure of it, but, to my surprise, she didn’t run. She gave me a big hug and thanked me for opening up and sharing. We discussed what could be done and came to the conclusion that we should find a neurologist.
The next morning I was actually motivated to face the day. I went with my wife to do some Christmas shopping at the mall and we talked about seeing if we can find a neurologist to look at my head, and see if something was loose. I’ll admit we probably should have done it in a more private setting, but the kids were home from school so this was about as much privacy as we were going to get. We discussed everything with as much subtly as possible and came to the conclusion that I should wait till after all the holidays. I was reluctant but she had a good point. I didn’t have anymore vacation days left and would get some after New Years.
The holidays came and went. My wife, the amazing woman she is, helped me when things got bad. It was incredible to have someone there for me and I'm glad it was her. We went to two neurologists but they couldn’t find anything. I was starting to lose faith that this problem would be solved. We didn’t know where to go from there. When we got home I went and took a hot shower. I began thinking of how life was going to be with this thing attached to me. I thought of the depression, the anger. I tried to come to terms with it. Tried to tell myself that I was never going to be happy and I’d have to deal with it. I was defeated. I wondered how long it would be before my wife couldn’t take it anymore. I thought of what she had been through since thanksgiving. I thought of the damn turkey. Mocking me with its simple dismemberment.
The light bulb clicked on. That was it. That’s what needed to happen. I needed to
find someone who was willing to amputate my leg. I laughed and ran to my wife, still dripping from the shower. (I did have a towel around my waist to not scar my kids). She opposed the idea at first stating that it was twisted, but I was able to convince her. We tried to develop an argument that seemed less crazy than ‘my leg shouldn’t be there, please cut it off’. We thought we had finally made a good case for me, but after weeks of searching, every surgeon we found declined. I was at the end of the rope when we found one who looked over my psychiatric evaluations and CAT scans and determined that I was not crazy. He said that if I felt it would improve my life he would do it. My heart skipped a beat. It was like watching my wife walk down the aisle all over again. The bad news was the insurance wouldn’t cover it. We would have to pay out of pocket and it would be half a year more before we had enough to afford the procedure. I took a deep breath and agreed to wait.
Three months had gone by, each day was progressively worse. My leg was haunting me. It was all I was able to think about. How much I hated this thing attached to me. I wasn’t able to focus on anything, not my kids, not my wife, not my job. I could see the effects of it. Everyone looked tired or angry.
It was a week after my daughter’s birthday when things got out of control. I was home alone with the dog, which kept licking my left leg. I couldn’t take it. I wasn’t going to last another three months. I felt my heart in my throat. I went to the garage, and took a spare timing belt. I could feel my pores oozing with sweat, like a squeezed orange. I found my new hacksaw and sat on the workbench. I used the timing belt as a tourniquet around my left thigh. I measured exactly 1.17 inches from my knee. I had the common sense to take out my cellphone and dial 911. I told them I was in the garage. As the saw touched my flesh I felt my adrenaline kick in. I started moving the blade back in forth, breaking the fibers of my skin. My hands were covered with a slow growing pool of crimson. The blood spray had hit my face and I could smell the rusted iron aroma it gave off. I continued down, back and forth. It sounded like the sloshing of pigs eating slop. I felt as muscle and sinew were chewed effortlessly in the saw’s teeth. The bone was just like sawing wood but it sent a vibration up my leg into my hip. The ambulance showed up before I could finish through the bone, but the damage was done.
I am not crazy.
I woke up in the hospital after a day went by. My wife and kids by my side. The first thing I noticed was I couldn’t feel that foreign limb. I felt elated. I notice that my kids had been crying. I picked up my daughter and told her how much I loved her. I was able to tell them all how much I loved them. My wife was scared of me. She thought I snapped, but deep down I think she knew that its what needed to be done, because she never ran away with the kids. I proved that things were going to be better. I had gotten a prosthetic leg, but I still was able to coach my son with his pitching. I can see how beautiful my daughter is becoming. I can help my youngest with his math homework. I’m even able to fulfill my wife’s needs. I can wake up and face the day with a smile. I finally felt complete.
About The Author
Alex G. Asator is a New Yorker living in the heat of Florida. He spends his time creating believable science fiction worlds in which he can populate with stories of the fantastica. His love for death metal inspires his dark sense of humor.